Inexplicable
by Ellianna Cooper
Summary: Sark has a frightening fetish. Will would never know it. SLASH


Title – Inexplicable   
  
Author – Me  
  
Disclaimer – Characters are not mine. Never were.  
  
Rating – R – sexual images, m/m, none too graphic.  
  
Sometimes, Will struggles in his sleep, arms rooted firmly to his sides, trying to escape the unseen metal bracelets of his dreams that strap down his wrists and ankles. Sark loves to watch him, his wonderful suffering arousing something deep within his groin, a wetness and want that no other stimuli can bring upon him. He has studied his highly imaginative lover, has learned to spot the warning signs of an imminent night terror – the sporadic twitching of long limbs, and the quiet vocal noises that come from a throat that still remains hoarse from the previous night's episode. Will's horrors come in phases, like a lunar cycle. They last for nights at a time, and then vanish, like the moon, into nothingness.   
  
  
  
He has to indulge while he can.  
  
Sark leaves the blinds open when they sleep, telling Will that the stars help him sleep, and that counting them off, one by one, cures his incessant insomnia far more easily that sheep could. In reality, it's because he likes to watch the moonlight spread across Will's face. He can see the anguish more clearly when the rays highlight his lover's silken features, and the the dressings in the room have nothing to do with ancient Russian furnishing techniques. They just make Will's screams louder, because of the way they echo off the walls around the carefully placed chest of drawers and mahogany wardrobes.  
  
  
  
He can act like the stars he counts shine from his eyes in the daytime, can watch Jeopardy with him and spoil it by revealing the answers, and can beat him at poker any day of the week. He'll even kiss him when he wants to be kissed, touch him when he wants to be touched. He can be the man that Will so desperately needs him to be, but the night times are his and his alone. During the night, he feeds of Will's fear, engorging his own body and mind with the depiction of beautiful torture before him.   
  
It's started early tonight. His leg kicks out, catching Sark in his thigh, and instantly rouses him from sleep. When he looks at the clock on the wall, he notes the time. 3.32 am. He smiles, because he's calculated it with scientific precision, and Will is as reliable as rain in England. He's been asleep for approximately 1 hour and 22 minutes, which means he's just about entering REM sleep. The dream will last for between eight and ten minutes. He's spotted a correlation – knows that the dream will start, soon, because REM sleep comes much later when Will isn't inclined to slip back to China.  
  
He clutches his sheets in his hands. Satin against silk. Any real lover would rouse him, shushing him, calming him into a restful sleep, but Sark can't deny himself his life's one pleasure – the only thing that could bring him any kind of sexual gratification. Will's internal struggles were like lyrical poetry, music to his soul, because Taipei was the most intensely sexual experience Sark had ever experienced. What was better than napalm in the mornings and shocking blue eyes pleading for life at midnight?  
  
Will's head moves softly from side to side, the second sign of impending "doom". Sark concludes that he's trying, forcefully, to rid the lingering images from his resting mind. Or, restless mind. Whichever one preferred. His head makes a cavern in the white satin pillow as he tries to pull away from what Sark remembers to be a cloth full of chloroform. Like Will, Sark could re-play the entire ordeal through his head, yet unlike Will - it would be pornography, rather than horror. He'd love to see a psychiatrist to find out the reason behind this, but he's rather afraid they'd sign him off to a hospital for the criminally insane and section him indefinitely. He clearly recalls Will's happiness at not being proven to be a "sociopath" in a conversation not so long ago. He didn't realise, still doesn't realise, that he's living with one. Sleeping with one, in fact. A man with no morals and a man with no soul.  
  
  
  
Will's head weakens in its struggles, the images fading momentarily as he fall into sleep within sleep, his nostrils full of the sickening smell of gas, a smell so vivid in his memory that he cannot bear the sight of white cloth, because he still associated the colour and the texture with the smell that put him to sleep so easily. Sark has dotted it ever so slightly on his pillow a couple of times as he slept, just before the dreams took him, because the only thing more beautiful than the dreams is the terror and the subtle confusion that lingers in wakefulness, enhanced by the slight smell of chloroform on his pillow.  
  
  
  
"No..."   
  
  
  
Sign three is the whispered pleading, the almost-silent begging for life.   
  
  
  
"Please, no..."   
  
  
  
It is Sign Three that really starts to get Sark going and as soon as the first word passes Will's tortured lips, his hand wraps around himself, and he begins the tedious, laborious task of bringing himself to hardness, of self gratification whilst his lover re-lives his life's most terrifying experience.   
  
Sign Three would make Sydney Bristow weep. Has done before, in fact. He remembers the phone call - remembers the chill and the stammer of her voice, shaking more intensely once she'd heard for herself the extent of his suffering. It's official. Will suffers beautifully. Even Angel Bristow knows this. She made him suffer for as long as she knew him.  
  
"I loved her", Will had told him.  
  
"I know", he'd replied, because it was her name he screamed out when they took out his second tooth. It was her who he cried for in his drugged, altered sleep on his second night in a metallic chair, with his arms cramped at his sides and the twitch in his leg impossibly constant.   
  
  
  
By Sign Four - the sweat soaked forehead, holding Will's perfectly styled hair down and drenching the pillow, Sark is semi-erect - half way to Heaven - as Will is half way to Hell.  
  
  
  
Sark found it more effective when he role-played when Sign Five came to be - the quiet crying, begging for mercy, and what Sark assumed to be the actual interrogation, the actual torture. The actual pain. Of course, Will recalls his voice in connection with Taipei. He doesn't have to ponder his words too hard, because it all comes naturally to him. He doesn't have to inflict the actual pain, because Will remembers it so vividly and so fully that he's bit his tongue on numerous occasions because of it, and the taste of blood in his mouth only intensified the dream even further.  
  
  
  
The man formerly known as Julian Lazarey likes it when Will bites his tongue. It tastes like age-old chardonnay, or at least its equivalent. He's a malevolent aristocrat, and if he's to drink chardonnay, it must be at least a century older than himself.  
  
  
  
Will's back arches, just as Sark's does, their bodies writhing beneath the sheets. He's not cavorting in pleasure, however, because Will is not that way inclined. Pain frightens him, whereas it lingers in his lover's mind, frightfully arousing and terrifically euphoric. Sark places a hand on the young man's chest to restrain him, but he doesn't wake up. Night terror sufferers rarely did trapped in their appalling dream reality with a thousand keyless padlocks securing them inside of their own minds.  
  
  
  
"Tell me about the Circumference, Mr. Tippin."  
  
  
  
"I don't know a thing about the circumference..."  
  
He has to be careful, now, because this is the point where Will tries to rouse himself. Has to be quiet, now, or else the game will be over too soon, and he'll be left bored and unsatisfied, and Tippin will fall graciously into a dreamless sleep. Chance lost. He's tried using chloroform on him, but found that it numbed his vividly recollective memory, and Sark likes it when the memories are fresh and vivid. Harsh and intense. It makes for a more exhilarated orgasm. He calms Will back to sleep with a gentle hand across his hairline, a move that works more often than not, but has failed on numerous occasions.  
  
Will cries softly.  
  
"Please let me go…"  
  
Sark cries, softly, but it's from pleasure and not torment. He twitches a little in the palm of his hand, smiling, because his move was successful. Will was still sleeping, dreaming, and he was that bit closer to release. Just a flick of a wrist, and he'd be closer to God.  
  
  
  
"If you tell us what we need to know, the pain stops. You want it to stop, don't you?"  
  
(It's almost like mind rape)  
  
"I don't know anything…please…I don't know."  
  
(Beautiful, beautiful torture)  
  
"I think you do."  
  
THe blond man licks his lips, staring, unable to contain himself. It's manipulation in its worst form, but by God, it does something magical to him. He only has to feel his length throbbing in his hand to know this to be true. Doesn't know why, but who is he to question the way he was made? Who is he to question God for what He turned him into? He has no wife to cheat on, has no Polish mistress to beat with a wooden stick, but he has Will, and he doesn't lay a finger on him. Nobody could accuse him of that.  
  
"Tell me..."  
  
(So quiet...so softly softly quiet)  
  
His fragile lover screams.  
  
  
  
"I DON'T KNOW!"  
  
There's Sign Six, and it's all over for Sark. He shouts out with Will, covering his hand with warm, salty spray that blends perfectly into the bed linen, unnoticeable.  
  
Sark can't take Sign Six without letting go, because that voice…that hysterical voice…is enough to make any grown man weep. Make any sociopathic fetishist lose control. Will's voice, in reality, is so soft and gentle that, half of time time, Sark has true difficulty in hearing him. It is for this very reason that the anguished words yelled in torment resound in his head. These are not words screamed in anger, but words screamed in complete, utter frustration and overwhelming terror. He's so trapped in his nightmare, at this point, that although he almost shatters the windows with his screams, he never quite manages to wake himself up. Perhaps, Sark thinks, he secretly enjoys his night terrors and actually forces himself to stay asleep. Of course, this thought more often than not turns Sark off, because part of the sadistic pleasure is derived from the fact that Will doesn't want ANY of this.  
  
He'll cry for a few moments longer, before his tears wake him up.  
  
Sark waits for him to shoot up in bed, as if a whip or a knife has sliced across his back. That's how it always goes. This is as far as Will's mind will allow him to travel. Like clockwork, like rain in England, Will doesn't break the mould. His eyes dart wildly around the room, blinking away the tears and the sweat that have clouded them, turning to look at Sark, who is now blinking his OWN eyes, as if from sleep.  
  
"Are you ok, Will?" he asks, masking a smile, feigning concern. He knows how beautiful and eloquent and downright convincing he can be.  
  
"Y-yeah", he replies, voice back to the familiar softness, no longer screaming bloody murder.   
  
"Bad dream?"  
  
(and the Academy Award goes to....)  
  
"Guess so", Will whispers. He rarely remembers the dreams, his consciousness not allowing him to face his fears head on. Of course, Sark has lain with him night upon night, confronting his fears with him. Revelling in them. Tippin will never know this simple fact, because Sark will never allow him to. He's in control. He's the cat to the mouse. He's the Whale to Will's Jonah, swallowing him whole, but now allowing him to be spat back out again. He doesn't grind his teeth over Will's fragile bones, because he's so perfectly damaged, already.  
  
"Come here", he smiles, and it's a beautiful smile rather than the grimace of the devil, because Sark is nothing if not a good actor.   
  
"Lie with me. I'll keep you safe."  
  
And Will does, blissfully unaware of the lion's teeth bared against the back of his neck, rather than an angel looking over his shoulder. 


End file.
